


Heated Up

by VishanteKaffas (underneath_the_africanskies)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 11:12:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6982162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underneath_the_africanskies/pseuds/VishanteKaffas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin's dreams of obtaining his dream restaurant through reality television are impeded by an asshole who insists on being charismatic and attractive. What a douchebag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heated Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for one of my friends! The prompt was "Let's take a stab at it, shall we?", and I hope you like my interpretation of it. It's quite different to what I usually write, but I hope you like it!

Armin stood in front of the mirror of his dressing room, looking at his chef whites which were neatly placed over the chair, waiting to be donned not unlike that of a king’s robe. He noted his face was calm, a stark contrast to his pounding heart within, pumping adrenaline throughout his body.  He relished it, it was the moment before victory, and victory was sweet sweet sweet.

The location of the dressing room was not hard to decipher. Armin had sold himself to The Man, and The Man was cooking television. The logo of Chopped was helpfully everywhere, just in case Armin had forgotten his purposed. So asinine. Preaching to the choir. _Ugh._ He shrugged on his chef’s jacket. No matter, he was strong willed. He could deal with giving up his soul to the entertainment of others. He just needed that money.

Armin had finally acquired a property in which to fulfil his lifelong dream of owning a beautiful little restaurant. It would be Italian, and it would be authentic. Best ingredients, best dishes. Only 25 bowls of his specialty pumpkin and ricotta ravioli in a fresh tomato sauce with tiny hints of cloves pushing through would be made each day! Limited, high quality food. That sort of gig. But, said property was currently a wreck and needed an overhaul. It was just plain unhygienic to serve oozing plates of deliciousness while there was damp in the walls and leaking pipes. And the mould! Armin shivered at the thought.

He had been through round after round of this show, and finally he was here, at the finals. He didn’t know any of the contestants, but that was fine. He would crush them all under his heel. He tied his apron back a little too sharply, turned on heel and marched to the door. The plan was set, the wheels were in motion. Showtime.

The three judges were the cream of the crop in the food world. A selection of food critics, food journalists and chefs.

The host, a massive blonde man called Reiner, had a booming voice. He towered over Armin and his fellow contestants, but gave an aura of friendliness. That, Armin could deal with. He could also deal with the three judges, Sasha Braus, a food journalist, Connie Springer, a food critic and Levi Ackerman, a chef at a four Michelin-starred restaurant. He could woo them with his perfect food.

The problem was one of the contestants he was going up against.

Armin knew this type of punk. Tattoos, piercings all over his face, stupid haircut. Probably owns some vegan café. Exactly Armin’s type. When Armin had been introduced, the guy had looked over at him, and smirked, and suddenly Armin’s heart had a different reason to pump faster. SHIT.

A development such as this should have no effect on his ability to win, Armin reasoned as he stared holes into the covered basket in front of him. Jean, as his name was announced, would be crushed just like everyone else who stood in his way. He did, predictably, own a vegan café in Portland. He tried not to scoff. He probably used egg replacer, for God’s sake. How could he make decent pasta without eggs? Did he just never use ricotta? He bet he used cashew ricotta. How did he expect to win using cashew nuts masquerading as the beautiful, delicate nuance of pure ricotta??

Slightly cheered by this thought, he was further bolstered when he lifted the cloth on his basket to find basil, tomatoes, corn flakes and fish. Easy! Feeling his face flush in relief, he raised his arms in celebration, to hear laughter coming from two work stations over. He lowered his arms, glaring at the perpetrator, who seemed to be further amused by Armin’s annoyance, and actually winked. _Oh. My. God_. Armin felt his face flush even redder, and quickly looked back at the basket in front of him.

Then the timer began, and Armin suddenly was in the zone. He grabbed all the equipment he needed, all the ingredients he wanted, and began to create magic. Cornflakes crushed with herbs as a crust for the fish, lightly fried in olive oil, served with a tomato sauce with fresh basil stirred into the mixture. Easy, simple, elegant. He smirked slightly as he plated up meticulously. How was the vegan supposed to cook fish properly, anyway? Feeling significantly more confident than when he walked into the room, he plated up, stepping back a full minute before Reiner told them to stop.

Feeling confident, he stepped up to the judges table, placing the three identical dishes in front of them. They tried a few bites, Levi frowning, Connie looking oddly serious compared to his introduction, Sasha looking excited.         

Finally, they set down their cutlery. First to go was Sasha. She smiled kindly and gave him a thumbs up. “Great job,” she told him. “Nice use of the ingredients. Only problem,” she looked down at the dish, turning it something as she scrutinised it, “do you think you could have used the ingredients a little more imaginatively?”

Trying not to feel disheartened, Armin trudged back to his work station.  
Then came Jean’s turn, and Armin’s jaw dropped.

It wasn’t food. It was art. Jean had filleted the fish and sliced them thinly so they had curled beautifully in the pan. The tomatoes were a beautiful red, glowing from the heavy stage lights above them. He had turned the cornflakes into a spiced crumble, with red flakes of chilli popping through the yellow of the corn, basil finely chopped and placed on the base of the plate, tendrils of pea shoots laid over the top of the dish.

It received a standing ovation from the judges. Bastard. Damn those pea tendrils.

They returned to another room to wait while the judges conferred. Armin tried to ignore Jean in the corner, feeling slightly overwhelmed by nerves. He had a chance, right? The top two of that round were definitely him and Jean, and he hadn’t screwed up spectacularly. He just needed a little more imagination… shit. He could do this.

“You cook well,” he heard a voice from somewhere above him. He looked up to see Jean smirking at him. Could he not smile normally?

“Thanks,” Armin said, trying to ignore his heart which had started beating frantically again. This man was going to kill him.

“Yeah, and I think I’ll be fine,” Jean continued, answering an unasked question, crossing his arms and smirking. He had rolled his sleeves up, and an inch of a tattoo was poking out on the top of his lower arm.

“That so?” Armin said, his irritation rising.

“Oh, for sure,” Jean said, his smirk widening into a grin. He tapped Armin on the shoulder. “You and I, we’ll be together on this till the very end,” winked and walked over to Reiner who had just entered the room, leaving Armin spluttering in an indignant rage.

Jean had been right, and both of them passed to the next round. No matter. One down, two to go. Armin had it in the bag.

This was clearly all a part of his plan, he reasoned, noting with dismay that their workstations had been changed so that his was right next to Jean’s. Jean gave him a mock salute before they lifted the cloth on their work baskets.

Tomatoes, cola, seitan, instant gravy. Armin wrinkled his nose. Gross. What the hell was he supposed to do with this? He refused to look at Jean, preferring the Jean in his mind, who was also panicking at this basket.

 He brought up different methods of how to cook seitan, but came up blank. Did anyone actually eat seitan??

After some quick thinking, he finally came up with a plan. It was a firm vegetable food, so he would treat it like any other firm vegetable food. Risotto would have to do.

He only had thirty minutes to make said risotto, so he scrambled to put the food on so he could begin the stirring process. Ten minutes near the end, and some of his confidence began to creep its way back. This is fine, he thought, and risked a glance at his neighbour.

Jean’s workplace was a disaster. What seemed like every type of pot and pan were on the stove, their contents boiling away. Jean was covered in flour, and he was stirring at a pot with an intensity Armin couldn’t believe he was capable of.

Immensely cheered by this sight, Armin wiped off his work station and began to plate up. Risotto, slightly sweetened by the cola that he tried not to think too hard about, thick and creamy with sweet tomatoes and meaty seitan popping through, flavour enhanced by the instant gravy which he had used as stock. It tasted better than he thought it would, and he felt his confidence rise again. He added some pea tendrils to be safe.

Once again, he stood back a minute before time was up. Jean finished just as the announcement was made. Armin risked feeling a little confident. This time, Jean was the first to bring his dish forward to be tasted, and once again Armin’s jaw dropped.

_How does such perfection come from such a disaster_ , Armin thought in a panic as he brought forward what looked like a beautiful roast meal. Sasha’s eyes widened with glee as she took in the thinly sliced seitan, which had somehow become light pink and looked like perfectly roasted beef, set upon a beautiful, creamy mound of mashed potatoes, tomatoes once again looking as if they were straight from a magazine shoot.

“Did you use beetroot for the colour?” Levi asked, holding a piece up on his fork for inspection.

“Yes, I thought it would improve the appearance,” Jean replied insufferably.

“Jean, my boy,” Sasha said, her mouth filled with mashed potatoes; “you may just turn me into a vegetarian.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Connie said, a happy smile on his face. He gave Jean a thumb up, “but very good job. How did you use the cola?”

“I simmered the seitan in the cola and a blend of spices to prep it and give it a bit more flavour,” Jean replied. Armin frowned. Prep it? Did seitan need to be prepped??

Armin listened to a full ten minutes of them singing Jean’s praises while his panic continued to rise. Going last was a terrible decision. He looked down at his now cold, congealing food. Damn the constraints of filming.

Jean cleared the table with a flourish and returned to his workspace and _winked_ at Armin again. Furious that he was flustered by this, he felt his face heat up for the millionth time that day. This wasn’t meant to happen.

He still had his pride, he reasoned, as he brought his three plates of ice cold risotto to the table. This entire experience was undignified, but he refused to show it. He held his head high, and delicately placed the plates before the judges.

“Hmmmmm… it looks like,” Levi leaned his head into one of his hands, his elbow propping up his arm on the table top, “It looks like my mother should draw a smiley face on it in ketchup in an attempt to entice me to eat it.”

“Oh my god,” Sasha said into hands.

Armin swallowed down the bad feelings, which were rising like bile in his throat. They went to his stomach, which churned uncomfortably. “It was a better colour an hour ago,” he mumbled.

“Yes, it was,” Levi agreed, poking at a piece of seitan with his fork. “Well, there’s no point in delaying the inevitable,” he said, plunged his fork into the now solid rice, and carved himself a good forkful, placing it into his mouth delicately. The other two followed suit, though less delicately. They chewed for a long time, which would have been more comfortable if Levi hadn’t been staring at Armin unblinkingly the entire time. Finally, they all swallowed.

“Well,” he began, “it tastes better than it looks-“

“Delicious!” Connie interrupted with enthusiasm. Armin wanted to bow down at his feet, the ray of sunshine in this disaster of solid risotto and unsimmered seitan. Sasha was nodding in agreement, and, despite everything, Armin felt a nervous smile cross his face.

“Seitan is as chewy as fuck though,” Levi added bluntly, pointedly poking at a piece in his bowl. “You ever cooked with it?”

“No,” Armin admitted honestly.

“Hmmm,” Levi hummed, but didn’t press the issue further.

All in all, a mixed reception, that somehow felt more positive when Jean approached him once again in the waiting room.

“I think you did a great job,” he said, that damn smirk still on his face.

“That so?” Armin replied, feeling more than a little glum. He knew he would be lucky to get into the dessert course. He really had to focus. Which was difficult when the biggest distraction in the room was holding a bowl of the offending dish that may get him kicked off the show. He waved it in front of Armin’s face. “Mind if I try this?” he asked.

“Go for it,” Armin replied flatly, wishing this day would end. Jean chose the biggest piece of seitan, which pissed Armin off even more. Why did he have to go for the parts that weren’t good?

It took Jean a while to chew, during which time Armin stared pointedly past him at Reiner, who was talking to the other remaining contestant.

“You’re a talented chef, Arlert,” Jean finally said.

“Huh?” Armin asked stupidly, temporarily dropping his façade.

“And cute,” he added, his smirk infuriating.

 Armin resisted the urge to kick him in the shin. “Why?” he demanded.

“I dunno, it’s really easy to make you blush,” Jean replied thoughtfully, tapping the end of the fork against his lip ring.

“Not that!” Armin protested, feeling himself blushing at that again. Damnit. “Why do you think I’m talented?”

“Oh! You did pretty well on the seitan. Most of the time it ends up like cardboard. Or it disintegrates. This was your first time making it, yes?”

“Yes.”

“There you have it,” he said, as if it were the simplest fact in the world.

They lapsed into an oddly comfortable silence. “Why did you start cooking?” Armin asked, surprising himself. Jean’s face relaxed into a gentle smile as he stared ahead. “My mom. She taught me everything I know. I had a bit of a rough childhood…” he moved an arm to the back of his neck awkwardly, “and she was always there for me. And what she was best at was making food. Simple things, omelettes, mashed potatoes, things like that. Food became comfort, and I wanted to do that for other people.”

He glanced down at Armin and the smirk returned. “I’m also really good at it.”

Armin didn’t know what to say to that, so he dared a small smile. Jean raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s that look for?” he asked.

“You just surprised me, is all,” Armin replied, grabbing the bowl of risotto that was still in Jean’s hands and walked over to the bin, dumping the bowl’s contents inside. He turned back to Jean with a flourish. “May the best chef win!” he declared.

The best chef, according to the panel of judges, turned out to be Jean. Armin had gone through to the dessert course, and had succeeded admirably, but Jean’s successes in the previous courses cinched him the win. Armin didn’t feel as crushed as he had expected to be.

  
Something else he hadn’t expected was an email a few weeks later. A business proposal.

“Isn’t Jean Kirschtein the prick with the piercings from that show you did?” Eren asked, reading over Armin’s shoulder.

“Yes,” he replied, dazed. The contents of the email were almost unbelievable. Half the winnings. A joint collaboration. Cooking and serving the type of food he loved. He had stayed in contact with Jean, exchanging Skype details, and now this was happening. Jean was rough around the edges and arrogant to boot,, but somehow Armin felt a strong connection with the man, and now it seemed it was mutual.

“Holy shit,” Eren muttered, eyes widening as he read the content of the message. “What did you do to get this kind of offer from him?” he asked, ruffling his friend’s hair.

“I dunno, I just-” he was interrupted by his screen erupting in a Skype phonecall. Armin gave a small yelp of panic. “Ooooh, he’s phoning you,” Eren pointed out unhelpfully.

“Out!” Armin said, leaping from his chair and bodily pushing Eren towards the door, closing it in his face. He ran back to his seat, his face breaking into a smile as he accepted the call. Jean’s face appeared on screen.

“Hey,” he said, sounding cheerful.

“Hi,” Armin replied, fighting the butterflies and good feelings in his stomach in a vain attempt to be coherent.

“’You get my email?”

Armin nodded, the smile refusing to leave his face.

There was a pause while Jean waited. “…And?”

“You’d have to move across the country,” Armin told him. Jean shrugged. “I know. I’d been planning to move, anyway. May as well be in the same city as my new partner.”

Armin pretended to consider while Jean waited. Finally he shifted. “Come on Armin, I’m dying here…”

“I accept,” Armin said, smiling shyly. Jean’s face broke into the smile that Armin had grown to love, not quite a smirk, not quite a grin. “Really?” he asked, though the answer was clear on Armin’s face.

He could hear Eren whooping from behind the door.

“Really,” Armin said, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear, “let’s take a stab at it, shall we?”


End file.
